


In the Still and Silent In-Betweens

by HatterRed



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fiona-centric, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:58:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatterRed/pseuds/HatterRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Fiona wonders. ((A short little one shot Fiona introspective))</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Still and Silent In-Betweens

**AN: Hiiiiii. I am Jules and I had not intended to write this. But, I recently got a review on my one other Shameless story,** _**Mom** _ **, that indicated a desire for more Fiona-centric fics from me. I don't know if I have any others, but I have this one, as crappy as it is. Sorry 'bout that bit.**

**Anyway, this is for you, YouthlNaisa6.**

**Go.**

* * *

She always felt guilty about it, but sometimes Fiona _wondered._ In the moments of bone-weary stillness, between the chaos of living in a house with five kids and not knowing whether they'd have enough to survive the week—enough food, enough money, _enough everything_ and _anything_ they could get—when she had a whole, full, 15 _seconds_ to herself to breathe and think, Fiona wondered.

* * *

She wondered the obvious, of course. Fleetingly, where Jimmy was and what had happened to him, in the silence when she's only just woken up, to a quiet house, and she stretches out to feel the empty space beside her, the one he once took up. She lets herself miss him briefly, but never stops to imagine he's there, lying ass up next to her. She doesn't have the time, because in the next breath, her thoughts have already pirouetted around to Ian, and she can scarcely think of anything else. She holds her breath and listens, hoping to hear him in the quiet—the spark of a lighter, the thump of his boots on the stairs, the heavy breathing that accompanies his morning workout. She wonders if he's safe, if he's happy.

On good days, she pretends he's laid out on a beach somewhere, sharing a beach umbrella with some gorgeous, tan, muscled surfer dude. She imagines him smiling, laughing, finally happy. In her fantasy world, he's safe, away from Frank, and far away from whatever it was that made him steal Lip's identity and run into the cold arms of military service. It's a nice thought.

On bad days, her mind runs away from her, providing her with nightmares about Ian that leaves her gasping for air, swallowing dry sobs so she doesn't wake the kids. She sees him in prison for lying to the army, being beaten and treated like somebody's bitch. She sees him out on the streets, alone and starving, begging for food, a bus ticket home. Her head gives her unwanted images of him selling himself to leering men in dark, disgusting alleys, or, worse, of him lying dead in one such alley, far from home and out of her reach.

Every day she misses him. (Misses them both, really, but Jimmy was never the priority when he was living here, so she doesn't see why he should be, especially since he walked out of her life without a word, and over what? Med school? A copout, a pussy move that she wants to never think about again. Her brain doesn't always cooperate, but it puts in a good effort.)

Of course, then the day begins and she's up and moving and doesn't have five seconds to relax, much less to wonder.

* * *

It's at the end of the day when the real wondering begins, after the kids are tucked in bed, the laundry's done, the dishes washed, after the bills are looked over and the squirrel fund is recounted, on the off chance Frank snuck in and found it. It's after she's made sure the doors are locked, and after she's cracked the living room window, just in case Ian comes home, so he'll have a way in if he doesn't have his key.

She lies in bed, the too big, too much space, bed, and her mind wanders.

She wonders what her life would've been like if she'd had different parents. Better parents. If Frank and Monica had done their duty, rather than drugs. She likes to think she would've gone to college—graduated high school and left town. Maybe she would've joined a sorority, done rush week, dated some rich, pretty-boy frat guy. Hell, maybe she would've met Jimmy the med student rather than Jimmy the car thief. Maybe she would've lettered in track, gotten a scholarship.

She likes to pretend she'd have been invited to run on the US Olympic team. She'd win the silver, she thinks.

She dreams about having a father who provides rather than takes. A father who is sober and aware, rather than intoxicated, drugged up. A father who would teach her drive when she turned 15, one who would walk her down the aisle at her wedding, and in a straight line. She dreams of a father who takes care of _her_ , rather than her taking care of _him._ A dad, really, caring and loving and supportive, with a job and benefits and no addictions of any kind.

She dreams of a mom—any mom, really. She knows, logically, than Monica isn't to blame for her bipolar disorder, but she can't help but wonder what a non-bipolar Monica would be like. A Monica—a mom—who would help her pick out a dress for prom. A mom who would gossip about boys with her, talk to her about her first date, her first kiss, her first time.

She wondered what it would be like to have parents who loved her.

Sometimes she wondered what her life would be like now if she had left with Jimmy when he offered a couple years ago.

Would she be stretched out poolside somewhere, tan and relaxed, with no worries about bills or whether Carl was becoming a sociopath? Would she be sipping some fruity and frozen drink on the deck of a boat, Jimmy grinning at the wheel behind his sunglasses, far away from the dirty streets of the Southside?

These were her darkest moments—the times in the middle of the chaos, when she looks around and _regrets._ She hates herself afterwards, of course, but in the moments that she feels so overwhelmed and unprepared for her _life,_ she regrets. She regrets taking over the role of parent to five kids that weren't hers. She regrets letting this become her life, regrets not disappearing that night with Jimmy.

Every time Carl brings home some dead animal he found under the L, or when Debbie tries to leave the house dressed like Mandy fucking Milkovitch, she finds part of herself, a tiny part, wishing she wasn't cast into this role, that she wasn't the one who had to deal with it.

Every time Lip argues with her over how she's running there house, that same small part of her wants nothing more than to hand him the reins and hop the next bus out of town.

She hates herself for it, but sometimes she wonders, and sometimes she regrets.

* * *

But then there are moments like these, when her family is all gathered around the kitchen table (minus one, the empty chair that sits there, haunting them all with the redhead that is supposed to be there), and they're laughing and talking over each other about their days. And there are the times when she's saying goodnight, tucking Liam in his crib, sliding Ian's knife out from under Carl's pillow—he hadn't let it out of his sight since he realized Ian wasn't back when he said he'd be—and answering Debbie's questions about whatever is on her mind.

It's these moments that make her so _grateful_ to have these kids, to have this purpose. It's these moments that make her happy in her life, no matter how difficult things get.

So, sure, sometimes Fiona wonders the selfish things that give her a different life. But mostly, she wonders about the great things her kids are going to do one day.

Maybe one will even get the silver.


End file.
